Between Books and Bullets
by Maxki
Summary: Ludwig Beilschmidt has lived a quiet life, working at a library in a bustling city. But then he meets Feliciano Vargas, a man with enough optimism for two, and everything seems to change very, very quickly. AU. Rated T for violence, potentially M later.
1. Part 1: Books, Chapter 1

**Title: **Between Books and Bullets, Part 1: Books, Chapter 1

**Short Summary: **Ludwig Beilschmidt has lived a quiet life, for the most part, working at a library in a bustling city. But then he meets Feliciano Vargas, a man with an optimistic attitude that just might help cure his pessimism. But what with his fast-talking, gun-toting brother and an Austrian that follows him around like a guard dog, is Ludwig biting off more than he can chew?

**Author's Note:** Hey there! Never really posted online before, but... Well, here I go!

This isn't my first attempt at Hetalia fic, but it is my first with present tense. Hope all goes well! I also haven't had the fortune of getting this beta'd. So excuse any grammatical/spelling mistakes you may see!

As happy as this chapter sounds, I must warn you, it will get pretty angsty later. I'm not usually one for drama, so it won't be TOO bad, but... There's your forewarning!

**Warning:** Language for this chapter, will get a little more violent later on.

* * *

The day they meet is golden, soaked in the rays of the sun. The sand of the beach glows in it and the waves are rolling as though attracted to the light. Groups of people dot the shore and the sea: families and pairs, brothers and sisters. Lovers. It's a beautiful sight.

But this… This is also beautiful.

A meeting of two bodies, one young of mind and action, and one jaded; the one who is aware of the effect of one domino hitting the other in a tumbling succession of events and the one who only knows the feeling of pushing them. From across the towels and coolers, the umbrellas and picnic baskets, their eyes lock for a moment.

It is mere, it is insignificant. But it is the scheme of things that one must look at.

And in this scheme, on this stage with these two as the starring players, they will have both built and destroyed one another. Such is the way of the world.

The one with the experience, his name is Ludwig. He meets the gaze of the other man and he tries to restrain the blush, tries to fight the redness that creeps up his neck. He knows he shouldn't have these feelings, but he can't resist - those eyes were what hooked him, those golden eyes that matched the sun. And that smile-

He can't look for long. With the way Berlitz is tugging on his leash, he knows he needs to watch where he is going.

"Berlitz, krängen! Herkommen!" His harsh tone jars the people around him, but this is normal. His large stature and deep voice give the impression of a war chief, someone out for blood and absolute victory. There is certainly some truth to not judging a book by its cover.

Watching from his beach towel is the second half to this equation, an Italian by the name of Feliciano. He giggles as the man almost trips, marveling at the movement of the muscles of the man's shoulders. He believes he is inaudible as he sighs and props his head up on his hand, his elbow digging into the terrycloth.

His brother puts down his magazine and follows Feliciano's gaze. He sneers.

"Just take a fucking picture, it'll last longer."

Feliciano can feel the colour rise in his cheeks as he slides his sunglasses down his forehead to perch on his nose.

Romano snorts. "Idiota."

* * *

Weeks pass by the time Feliciano walks into that bookshop, carrying an umbrella soaked with rain, his cheeks flushed. He pushes his bangs out of his eyes and glances around, a smile playing at his lips. His breathing hitches slightly in his throat and he giggles, wiping the rain off his face. It's obvious he had just had a run through the storm.

Behind him strides an older man not much taller than himself, dressed to the nines in a prim suit and trench coat, his brown hair perfectly styled except for a single curl of hair out of place. He shakes out his own umbrella with an expression of distaste, eyeing Feliciano's wet hair with a short huff. After a quick adjustment of his glasses, he stares down his nose at his ward. "What, exactly, are you looking for?"

The Italian takes a few steps forward, still trying to spot the section he was looking for. "I neeeeed…." The sentence trails off as Feliciano starts into a slow jog, his head flipping back and forth as he examines the shelves. "An art book! One with anatomy and bone structures and stuff. I want to get better at drawing muscles. Manly muscles," He scans the shelf headers, still searching.

The man coughs and grabs Feliciano's arm, not particularly interested in another game of chase. "Yes, well… I suppose while you look, if you'll pardon me for a moment, I would like to get a coffee. Would you like something?"

"No thanks, Roderich."

There is a pause. "… Will you be alright by yourself while I'm gone? I will be nearby, but…" His expression is wary, full of veiled assumptions of the worst possibilities. Feliciano smiles.

"It's just a bookshop. I'll be fine."

With a curt nod, the man is gone.

Now unaccompanied, Feliciano slows to a walk, examining each sign with expressed interest: the histories, the science fictions, the romances. He touches the covers of the 'most popular' novels that are displayed on the ends, picking up a few that appear interesting. Finally he finds the one he's look for, 'art/photography'. Beaming, he turns into the aisle, and as he scans the titles that appear before him, all in alphabetical order, he notices a man standing further down the row. He's reading a book with a name and a beautiful building on the front, all reflective surfaces and precise lines. But that's not what's so interesting.

He looks familiar. That blonde hair… No, it's not the hair so much as that build, those muscles that just stand out beneath all his layers of clothes. Feliciano knows he's seen him before… Where was it? The store? The park?

_The beach._ It's that man from the beach, the man who was walking his dogs. The man who had inspired him to come here and find a book to help him with drawing bodies just like his. The man who could be called his _muse_, simply standing before him.

He can't pass this opportunity up.

"Albert Kahn… You like architecture?" Feliciano could swear that he jumps at that, his face reddening in embarrassment. Holding the book in one hand, he moves his small reading glasses back up his nose, leaving them resting high on the bridge.

He clears his throat. "Yes, I do like architecture. But I don't believe that that should be any concern of yours, Mr.…?"

"Feliciano!" He offers ecstatically, holding out a hand. "Feliciano Vargas!"

The man stares at the proffered hand as though unsure what to do next. He looks down at the floor, his eyes narrowed as though contemplating his next action.

After a moment, he extends his own and gives the Italian's a firm shake. "Ludwig Beilschmidt. I suppose it's… nice to make your acquaintance."

Feliciano can hear the accent to his words, as slight as it is. German. He certainly looks it, with his hair and appearance. His clothes are perfect, not a stitch out of place… And his attitude doesn't seem to dispute much, either. He seems a little stuffy. A little bit uptight.

But he is good-looking. Hell, he is _extremely_ good-looking. And his personality, it seems cute, almost. And that, that is enough for Feliciano to try; for him to grab at the straws and hope that he doesn't get the short one.

"Nice to make yours, too!" He turns back to the bookshelves, scanning the titles and pulling out the ones that seem to be what he is looking for. "I'm an artist, myself, but I can appreciate the - oh, this one looks good - the _aesthetics_ of architecture, you know? The precision… It almost seems like that's art, itself." He hefts the books in his hands, running his palm over the spines. His eyes flick upward and meet Ludwig's blue ones, the ones that are watching him quite intently. Feliciano has to keep himself from grinning as he waits for the man to respond.

The German blinks and coughs into the back of his hand, once again adjusting his glasses. "Yes, well… If the precision is art, then I suppose the design must be something beyond that." He places his book back on the shelf. "The true spirit of architecture is in the function and form of the buildings themselves, and not only the technique used to craft them."

He looks at his watch and sighs, turning to the awe-inspired Feliciano. "I could speak further, but such things seem to be more at home in lecture halls," He dips slightly into a bow. "It was nice to meet you, Mr. Vargas. Your insight, though I did not hear much of it, was quite beyond that of the usual artist. It was… nice to hear." Stepping past the man, who at this point is feeling quite like a naïve child, he holds his hand up in a half-wave. "I hope you find whatever it is you are looking for."

And there he is, walking away, taking steps away from the aisle, down it, almost turning-

"Ludwig, wait!" He cannot remember the man's last name so he resorts to casualties, hoping that perhaps he will not take much offense. To his relief the man turns around, an eyebrow raised. His cheeks are slightly red. Feliciano prays it's not from anger.

"What is it you need, _Mr._ _Vargas_?" Ah, yes, he can hear the edge to the man's tone as he states the name in a formal tone, the end just barely quirking into the form of a question. This is it. His last chance.

Feliciano hefts his books into one hand and holds out a card, his name and number written sloppily on it in a curling scrawl that is almost illegible. He does not care at this point. "Would you care to, ah, hear more of my opinion sometime? Maybe over coffee? Or- Or dinner?"

The card sits, waiting to be taken in or taken back, held in the air between them as though it is the only rope tethering the two of them together. He looks at the man, trying to catch his eye, trying to see SOME signal of what his choice will be before he makes it… But there is no need.

Ludwig takes a deep breath and grabs hold of the card, gingerly taking it from Feliciano's grasp and placing it in his pocket. "Yes, well. Perhaps I will contact you in the future. Just to hear what you have to say. About architecture."

A grin lights the Italian's face as surely as if a fire has been lit in his heart, heating up his entire body in an instant. He nods furiously, "Alright! Of course! I hope to hear from you soon!"

With a nod in return, the man leaves, his coat tails flapping behind him as he exits the shop as quickly as his legs will carry him. Feliciano is still smiling, clutching the books so tightly to his chest that it hurts. He took his number. _Ludwig took his number._

He sees Roderich standing across the store, a Starbucks coffee cup in his hand, his eyes following the exiting German with a keen gaze. Feliciano waves to him and they meet halfway, the man instantly grabbing his arm and leading him to the checkout. He appears none too pleased. "Who. Was. That. Feliciano."

"Just a guy who likes the arts like me." He remarks, his eyes following the man as he walks down the street through the rain. "Just a normal guy."

Sometimes he wishes his life could be so simple.


	2. Part 1: Books, Chapter 2

**Title: **Between Books and Bullets, Part 1: Books, Chapter 2

**Short Summary: **Ludwig Beilschmidt has lived a quiet life, for the most part, working at a library in a bustling city. But then he meets Feliciano Vargas, a man with an optimistic attitude that just might help cure his pessimism. But what with his fast-talking, gun-toting brother and an Austrian that follows him around like a guard dog, is Ludwig biting off more than he can chew?

**Author's Note:** TO EVERYONE THAT POSTED REVIEWS: I LOVE YOU. I hope you keep reading and enjoying and… And all that good stuff! I also hope you keep giving me feedback (good or bad!) in the future! THANK YOU SO MUCH.

We get a taste of another role in this chapter, not so much a starring one, but definitely one that is more interesting. Also a cameo that might end up being a little bit MORE than a cameo. This is getting more and more fun to write as I go on. I hope the quality is maintained as I get a little looser with my style! :D

**Warning:** A certain someone's inability to keep their bad language to themselves, in future chapters, violence and certain touchy subjects will be a concern.

* * *

It isn't until he's about 10 steps into the rain that Ludwig realizes he has forgotten his umbrella.

He curses a bit, but he realizes he can't go back into the bookshop for it until that Italian is gone. There is no way in frozen Hell that he is going to risk another awkward conversation; another situation where his social skills stand at attention and then just seem to fall flat.

Even thinking about it, embarrassment starts to gnaw at his stomach. He thinks about everything he _could_ have said as he runs underneath the nearest awning, taking his cell phone out of his pocket and dialing the first number on his 'recent calls' list. He thinks that maybe he should have been a little nicer, maybe he could've said 'That sounds like a great idea, I'd like to know more about you', maybe he should have _at least fucking smiled-_

"Ah, _hallo?_ _Bruder_?" For a moment, it is silent. But then comes a string of mumbled phrases, some in German, some in English. Ludwig tries again, this time speaking a little louder. "Gilbert?..."

"WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT, LUD." He almost drops his phone at the sound of his brother's harsh tone, holding it a little further from his ear this time. He can never get used to the… volume of Gilbert's voice.

"Are you driving anyone right now?..."

And there goes his hissing laugh, that strange chuckle that no one can mimic just right. But then, with Gilbert, there are many things that can't, or perhaps shouldn't, be imitated.

"Yes, Lud, I talk like that in front of _allll_ my customers. Let me just add in a couple 'dicks', maybe something a little risqué to spice it up, and then I'll have met my hourly quota." Laughing at his own joke. Typical. "Now what is it you want? Need me to come get you?"

He clears his throat, looking over at the bookstore to see Feliciano leaving with a brown-haired man sporting glasses and a stern expression. The man is holding an umbrella over the two and seems to be speaking rapidly and severely, as though questioning the Italian. He wonders who it could be, if it's a friend of his, maybe they're in some sort of romantic entanglement-

"HEY, PAY ATTENTION WHEN I'M TALKING TO YOU. I don't have all damn day."

"_J-ja, Bruder, es tut mir leid. _I do need you to pick me up. I'm…." He trails off, watching the Italian walk towards a car pulled up next to the curb. Feliciano waits for the other man to open the door for him and he steps inside, taking heed to give the man a nod of thanks as he shuts the door for him. The action itself is not shocking. But the vehicle involved…

It is black, sleek; a gorgeous piece of machinery. It exudes both passion and elegance, and nearly screams of its Italian heritage in every curve of its structure. It is beautiful. It is architecture.

It is a Maserati.

A Quattroporte Maserati.

One of the most beautiful, most well made, most _expensive_ vehicles in the world.

And that… that _kid_ that he has just spoken to… He is being toted around in one. As though he were some kind of inner-city royalty.

Ludwig swears. Loudly.

"Hey. HEY! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING? What are you cussing at? I'm the one waiting for you to answer my fucking question! I swear to God, I'll hang up on you—"

"_Mein Gott, es tut mir leid_, I'm sorry!" He is snapping at his brother now. It is not usual that he reaches the end of his patience so quickly. He takes a deep breath. "If you would wait for one moment. I'm at a bookshop on Walker Street."

Gilbert groans. "Walker Street? That's in the fucking boondocks, Lud! That's a goddamn hike!"

"I would walk home, but I don't have an umbrella and it's raining pretty badly…"

All he can hear for several seconds is a long, dramatic sigh, followed by grumbling and the sounds of the phone shifting. "ALRIGHT, FINE, I'm on my way to get you. Just keep your pants on. See you soon."

"Nn. _Bis bald."_

"_Tschüss, kleinen Bruder."_

He hangs up the phone and watches the Maserati make its way down the road, snaking its way through traffic. It doesn't take long for the rain to blur it from his vision.

* * *

"What could you have _possibly_ been thinking?"

Feliciano knew this was coming, as soon as he had gotten That Look in the bookshop. That Look always tells him that he is in for it; it always has. Roderich has only been his bodyguard for a few years, but it seems that Feliciano is always getting into some sort of trouble, at least, in the Austrian's eyes. That Look is as familiar to him as a smile would be on the face of his brother's guard. He averts his gaze and shuffles his feet.

"You should know that it is dangerous to put yourself in that kind of situation," Roderich removes his glasses and begins to clean them with his handkerchief, replacing it in his pocket after he's finished. "Speaking to some random man, and such a large one at that—"

"I was just trying to be nice! And- And he wasn't exactly random. I've met him before." He crosses his arms and stares at his bodyguard, challenging him.

Roderich raises an eyebrow in return, crossing his own arms. "Oh really. And where was this, exactly?"

"At the beach!" The words tumble from his mouth as though objects affected by double gravity, sounding like something he'd planned. But for all of the times he has used an excuse (his back hurt, he was busy, he had simply forgotten), this is certainly not one of them. He tries to keep the pleading edge out of his voice, but he only halfway succeeds. "I met him when I went to the beach with Romano and Mr. Antonio!"

For a moment, their eyes remain locked. Roderich weighs the Italian's words to his own logic, comparing the two on an invisible scale, and for a moment it appears that he will drop the subject.

But of course, Feliciano cannot be quite so lucky.

The Maserati pulls up to a gate, the driver waiting for the guard to open it and let him through. As it opens, Roderich gathers himself up, pulling his umbrella from the floor of the car. The garage door is just ahead and the car pulls through with ease. "Well, I suppose I shall just have to ask Romano. Perhaps he will be able to tell me more about this man that you three met."

Oh, God. There is no way that Romano will have a good thing to say about the man that he hadn't even spoken to. Roderich opens the door and begins to get out, shifting the umbrella in front of him to avoid the rain. He grabs for the man's arm, but misses by an inch. His face crumples as he scrambles across the seats, his shoes scuffing across the leather interior.

"Oi, careful, kid! S'expensive stuff." The tall Dutchman shifts his driver's hat on his forehead, scratching at a scar near his temple. Feliciano turns his head as he runs, waving the hand holding his bag behind him.

"Sorry, Lars! I'll help you clean it later!"

That is, if later ever comes. Feliciano knows that there is a potential that Romano will kill him. He hopes that won't happen. His luck with relationships seems to only just be looking up.

* * *

It takes Gilbert 20 minutes to get there, and by the time he does, the rain has begun to let up. Even so, when he sees his taxi roll by, Ludwig dashes out from his shelter as if the rain were torrential. The taxi pulls up and he opens the door to the back seat to climb in, immediately leaning forward to pat his brother on the shoulder.

"_Danke_, _Bruder;_ I know you're busy at this time of the day…" Gilbert takes off his cap and runs a hand through his stark white hair, turning to Ludwig. His eyes seem to glow, even in the dim light of the rainy afternoon. Red. No other colour could produce such an unsettling stare.

He sneers and leans back in his seat. "Eh, don't worry about it. There was some chick earlier that needed a ride to the airport from the other end of town and the fare ended up being crazy. But you still owe me," he nods, enthused, holding up two fingers directly in front of his brother's face, "Two. Two cold ones. At least. And they have to be _good_. Not any of that sissy American shit. Stuff from back home."

Ludwig nods in return and can't help but smile. 'Back home'. It is always interesting to hear Gilbert speak that way about Germany, as though he had lived there for long. Ludwig lived there most of his life, from birth to age 19, but Gilbert—Gilbert grew up in America, in New York City. He'd moved away from their hometown when he was 7 years old and has never been back. It is easy to see that he misses it.

"I'll make sure to keep that in mind."

They are silent a moment as they wait at a red light. Gilbert taps his fingers along to the rock music that plays quietly from the speakers. "You know, Lud," He begins again, never one to keep a silence for long, "You could pay me back tonight. We could head over to Francis' bar and hang out for a bit." "He tries to nudge his brother with his elbow. "Maybe you could meet a cute girl!"

Immediately his face is flushed and Gilbert is staring in the rearview mirror, trying to keep an eye on the road while catching a look at his brother's red cheeks. "Wait wait wait. Bro_._ Why are you making that face?"

Ludwig cups his chin in one hand, allowing his elbow to balance on his knee. He stares at the floor. "Face? I am not making a face."

"Yeah_,_ you are. You are making one of those nervous faces. One of those 'I-Am-Trying-To-Hide-Something-From-My-Awesome-Brother' faces. What is it. Spit is out."

"I am making no such face."

Gilbert stares at Ludwig in the rearview. He lifts his face and stares back, his eyes flicking to the traffic light in front of them.

"The light's green."

"Don't change the subject!" But his brother swears and slams the accelerator, catching up to the traffic to the intonations of horns behind him. He rolls down the window and flips the bird, still talking as he maneuvers with one hand. He points to himself for emphasis. "You can't lie to me. I know when you lie." His thumb jabs at Ludwig this time. He is beginning to be confused by his brother's roundabout gesturing. "You know I know when you lie. So tell me…"

That tone. He is not confused by _that_. That is his cue. That is his indication. Finally Gilbert has come to the conclusion as to why he was not interested in going to a strip club for his 23rd birthday, why he has never given the same appraising glances to women as most men do. For all the gay jokes and jibes, Gilbert has never made any sign that he knew of his brother's sexuality. But this. This is it.

Ludwig feels as though a weight is crushing him, and there is no alternative. He will tell him. He will tell him right now, before he gets the chance to say it himself. His brother has always been one for dramatics, anyway.

"Yes, Gilbert, I-"

"YOU MET A GIRL."

And as quickly as the colour entered his cheeks, so did it exit. "I… what."

His brother reached into the back seat and attempted to clap him on the back, almost swerving into oncoming traffic in the process. For a moment, Ludwig believes he is going to vomit. "Oh my god, you DOG! You didn't want me to know because you thought I'd steal her away! Rightly so, I mean, look at me. Just look. The women can't keep their hands to themselves!"

"I… I."

"Ah…" He makes motions as though wiping away fake tears. "Look at you. Finally taking steps towards a normal relationship."

The blonde rolls his eyes and shoves away Gilbert's arm. "_Bruder._ You're being dramatic."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm just so—so happy." His voice becomes strained, choked with false emotion. He holds a hand to his chest, sighing loudly. "_Mein kleinen Bruder… _Finally going to get some!"

Ludwig pulls back and punches him in the arm. Then he does it again. And again.

But he is relieved.

For all his obliviousness, Gilbert is an easy brother to love.


End file.
